My column today (also attached below) tells the tale of how Frank Smith - a regular on the Elmwood blog, and a guy who moved away from his childhood home as a 16-year-old, in 1962 - called Mike and Tracey Davis, who own the house today. They were kind enough to let Frank walk through the place.

I came along, and it was an incredible thing to watch: Frank put his hand on the kitchen wall where the family phone used to be. He remembered exactly where his dog Alex used to sleep, and that made him remember how Alex would routinely sneak out, run up the street and join Frank and his friends as they played in Onondaga Park. Frank instantly, and powerfully, saw things he'd set aside for many years - and it made me wonder what I'd see if I ever walked through my own childhood house, which I drive past every time I go through my hometown.

Feel free to add your own memories or reflections here, at skirst@syracuse.com or on the forum.

- Sean

Homecoming

A rush of memories: Walking the rooms of his old house

Sean Kirst, Post-Standard columnist
April 26, 2009
The Post-Standard

At 62, Frank Smith is retired from selling ads for television and radio stations. He is divorced, and he has a couple of grown kids.

Saturday, he offered a warning as he parked in front of 214 Parkway Drive, in Syracuse.

"Forgive me," he said, "if I go in and start bawling."

Frank lived there from the time he was in first grade until 1962. His father made a living selling stainless steel. When Frank was 16, his dad got a new job in Massachusetts. The family moved away.

"I had no idea, as the moving van drove down the street, what we were leaving behind," Frank said.

Almost 50 years later, Frank lives in Virginia. For the last nine months, he's been a regular member of the Elmwood bloggers, a group of men and women raised in the same Syracuse neighborhood who correspond at www.syracuse.com/kirst. Saturday, those bloggers held a reunion in Elmwood.

Weeks ago, after Frank decided to attend, he went to the Internet and figured out that a couple named Mike and Tracey Davis now live at 214 Parkway Drive.

He called them. He explained that he'd be in town for the reunion, and he asked if he could take a walk in his old house. Mike and Tracey didn't know what to make of the call, until Nya -- their 5-year-old daughter -- offered a child's take:

"He probably misses his old home," she said.

The Davises were waiting Saturday when Frank got out of his car, carrying a bouquet of flowers for Tracey.

They went first to the garage. As a boy, Frank was fascinated by some numbers written on the wall. The guy who owned the house in the 1920s had a Buick, and he logged the dates and mileage for every oil change. That story was handed down from owner to owner. To Frank, as a child, those entries were like reading ancient script.

Mike keeps his garage beautifully organized, with each tool set exactly where it ought to go. Frank walked in and raised his hands.

The numbers were still on the wall.

His eyes filled with tears, but that was just the start. In the house, the memories almost knocked him to his knees. He went into the kitchen and instantly remembered a day when his mom was at the sink, and he was at the table with his brother David. They looked up when they heard a soft and unexpected noise.

Frank's baby sister had unexpectedly climbed to her feet. She was taking her first steps, across the kitchen floor.

A doorway near the kitchen evoked a harder memory. When Frank was about 12, he told his mother to "shut up" one day just before he left for school. When he got home, his dad called out to him from the basement. He told his son he needed help changing a fuse.

Frank went downstairs, into the darkness, where his father gave him a smack that Frank can feel today.

"That's my wife and your mother," his dad said in a low voice. "Don't ever let me hear you talk to her like that again."

Frank revered his father, who almost never raised his hand to his children. All these years later, thinking of that moment, the idea of disappointing his dad was as painful as the blow. "I crossed a line and that was the result," he said. "I sure as hell never crossed it again."

Mike led him upstairs, where Nya has the room that Frank once shared with his brother. He recalled how they could look out the window and see the glow of the old Sears Building. On autumn nights, the brothers would listen to the deep rumble of the announcer from high school football games on nearby Brighton Avenue.

The bedroom is attached to a porch. Once, on the first truly warm day of the spring, Frank went to the porch railing. His mother was in the yard, hanging laundry, at a time when mothers expected their children to wear jackets to school.

Frank called out: "Mom! Is it OK if I just wear a T-shirt because it's so hot today?"

"Yes," she replied, a moment representing such childhood freedom that it came rushing back to Frank in his old room, in his old house.

The family left for Massachusetts when Frank was in high school. Within two years, he was in the Navy. His mother would die young, at 50, from a brain aneurysm. Decade by decade, as life moved at an ever faster pace, Frank came to realize what his time on Parkway Drive really meant.

Going back carried a certain risk. There was a chance Frank would see the house and feel worse. But Mike and Tracey care deeply about the place. They've spent the last six years painting, decorating and putting down new carpets.

When the tour was over, Frank made a pronouncement in the kitchen:

"The house looks better than it ever did when I lived here."

A question came up about what the Davises love best about their home. Before Mike or Tracey could answer, Nya shouted a reply.

"Your family!" the child shouted. "Your family is what you love most!"